


Slow Start

by PromisesArePieCrust



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Romance, pff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 12:44:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11441139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PromisesArePieCrust/pseuds/PromisesArePieCrust
Summary: A Game, Set, Murder AU.





	Slow Start

**Author's Note:**

  * For [electriceell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/electriceell/gifts).



> Wishing a joyful, delight-filled weekend to electricell! July is an excellent month, full-to-brimming with ripe fruit, outdoor music, bicycles, and birthdays. :-) 
> 
> Love to Elaine and all July-babies!

He had pulled back, and not so much because he realised, midway through, that he was pinning a childhood token on an intimate piece of her apparel near an intimate part of her body. Neither was it because because she looked so remarkably beautiful in the browns and creams of her silk peignior, and how he had thought, fleeting but distinct, of sliding his hand over her waist and subtly moving to cup her breast.  


While any one of those elements would, indeed, have made him take a startled jump back even a few months ago, he was, by this point, inured to his nearly continuous thoughts of her, inured to his longing. He thought sometimes of how he would like them to be, but they were all indistinct forms at this point, more impressions than a plan, even as they were gradually becoming firmer in his mind.  


In hindsight, what made him startle and pull away slightly was her warm and admiring look, her soft eyes. And, more importantly, a look like that in the middle of the morning on a work day. His heart surged at the intimacy and domesticity of it.

Her look was not unwelcome, but it was unnerving because it spoke of things he had hoped for in quiet and secret. Here was real, obvious evidence of her affection. He had not yet braced himself for that joy.  


For some weeks, a perverse side of him had wondered what would happen if he were to say the things he knew she never longed to hear: ‘I adore you.’ ‘I want you in my life, in my arms.’ ‘I love you.’ He imagined the words as breathless, said without forethought and pulled from him beyond his control, that maybe he would like to take them back, but he couldn’t, and they would have to deal with those consequences, perhaps while only partially clad.  


Now, he considered the wild possibility that she might really like to hear these things— or the even wilder possibility that she felt them too.  


His heart sped as he passed her home in the quiet night. His hands fidgeted slightly in his pockets and he shook his keys. The pull he felt toward her was great, but he wondered if he maybe should wait. Perhaps it would be better for an organic opportunity to arise—no real advantage to rushing things, and really, her loving look could have been imagined. He was a patient man, he could wait for something more solid to go on than an—he was almost certain now—imagined affectionate look.  


He looked at his shoes, ready to turn them in the other direction, then felt a warm breeze which picked up the scent of a nearby flowering tree. He pulled out his pocket knife and expertly gathered an impromptu bouquet. White and lovely, like the dress that crept up her knee, he thought, catching his whimsy and wondering if he shouldn’t have a better head on his shoulders for executing a seduction of Phryne Fisher.  


Was that what he was doing? He stood still and considered. Yes. He stood straighter. Yes, that’s what he was doing.

  


He knocked at the front door and reminded himself to breathe as he waited an interminable time for someone to answer. He kept the flowers tucked behind his back and tried to look relaxed. By some mercy the lady of the house answered it herself and smiled, if not brightly, at least with sincere welcome. She wore the same smooth robe of creams and browns, some kind of cabbage rose he thought, distracting himself unhelpfully as his gaze wandered down her neck and shoulders. He remembered himself and cleared his throat. “Good evening, Miss Fisher,” he offered, which came out a little meekly and he stood straighter to give his voice more support. “I hope I didn’t wake you?” There, that was the note he had hoped to hit—solicitous and a little rumbly. She shook her head then stood back to let him in. He raised the flowers in offer as he passed and he could see she was a bit taken aback by them, but she looked grateful as she took them, and, after a moment of not being sure what to say, made for the kitchen, tipping her head to invite him to follow her.  


“No, Jack,” she said, reaching for a vase and filling it from the faucet, “I hadn’t yet gone to bed.” Her voice was a little thick, a little different from normal, and made her statement about not being woken sound suspicious. Maybe she had been dozing in the parlour? The image was unbearably dear.  


“I’m intrigued by the concept of midnight flowers…” she began, smiling at him a little as she teased and dropped the thin branches into the water, “and I don’t object…” she set the vase on the table between them and stood, all arched eyebrow and elbows akimbo, “but they look suspiciously like the lemon myrtle from the tree Camila transplanted.” There was a laugh in her voice; she wasn’t upset, but intrigued. She watched him and softened as she silently asked him why he was really there.  


"Can you really admire the myrtle from so far?” was all he could offer. She laughed quietly with him at his silliness and continued to considered him.  Her look wasn't piercing, but it was persistent. At last, her her lips swept into the same soft, sweet smile he’d been contemplating earlier.   


He would never admit to her the appeal of her simple, demure look, and how it made his stomach wobble. He knew, of course, that she was more ‘complex and forthright’ than ’simple and demure,’ but the contrast fascinated him. Perhaps in the way he sensed that his lapse into silly antics—tin badges and deputising special constables—had fascinated her. He was largely serious, they both knew, but the whole of him was more than serious or silly—as she was more than demure or forthright. He changed and wended though situations and life, as she, who practically reinvented herself with each new case or challenge, could appreciate--probably more than anyone he knew.  


Jack walked toward her slowly intending to…kiss her? Stroke her hair? He wasn’t sure once he got there, really. “Jack? Is everything alright?” He nodded then tried to salvage any of his momentum, but felt a little embarrassed. “I’m.. yes. I’m fine. I’m well. I…” She took his hand, her eyes wide. “What is it, Jack?” she whispered, but seemed to know. Ridiculously, he remembered Collins and his reluctance to invite Miss Williams to the dance; he’d never felt more sympathy for the boy. He opened his mouth to speak, but, without much thought for once, he brought his free hand up to the side of her face, where it hovered for a moment before his thumb brushed her cheek. She might have made some noise, his own hearing was too dominated by the sound of his heartbeat. Finally gathering speed, he leaned down and kissed her, his lips touching hers experimentally for several seconds, waiting to measure her enthusiasm before he pulled her close. The robe against her felt as he imagined, the warmth of her body filling him with a happy, muddy haze. He kissed her again more fully, letting his tongue reach out and taste her. He crumbled at the feeling of her body melting around him, her embrace tugging him closer. When his hand reached her breast, she groaned, and he kissed her still, harder. Eventually they paused, panting. “I love you, Phryne, I’m in love with you,” his breathless words toppled over themselves like feet tripping down the stairs.  


She nodded and looked like she was struggling, for breath and for words. After a few seconds he took pity on her and just kissed her, long and deep, and she kissed him back, sagging against him in relief. When he pulled away she gave a tearful laugh. “Everything alright?” he whispered, to which she nodded. She paused and looked away and he felt uncertainty rear its head again. She started to speak but decided against it, and instead looked at his hands as she threaded her fingers through them, stroking them lovingly. She met his eyes then, and, after a brief, perhaps insecure smile, tugged his hand, pulling him toward the staircase. He followed. 

  


He stared at the fire, doing his best not to think or to panic. She emerged from the bathroom and walked up to him touching his shoulder in a gesture asking him to stay seated and sat down next to him on the small sofa. She curled against him, laying a hand on his torso, again, so touchingly familiar. “Can you stay the whole night?” she asked. The question startled him; it was so far away from his current train of thought that he didn’t know how to answer. He couldn’t tell from her voice if she had a preference, but by the way she framed the question it seemed maybe she would like him to stay until morning. The truth was, he hadn’t thought about how the evening would end. He did have an early morning, but more pressingly, he didn’t really like the prospect of being seen leaving her home early in the morning. He started to say as much and suddenly felt the weight of his decision to come here, to kiss her. This wasn’t something sustainable, this wasn’t…—he loved her and she—what? Admired him? Desired him?  


“I don’t think I can stay,” he said, first addressing her question about the whole night, then addressing a larger one. He stood.  


“Jack?” she asked as he cast about, looking for his shoes—and wasn’t he wearing a jacket when he got up here? “Jack!” She stood in front of him, having deduced that he had changed his mind about the evening. She faltered for a moment, then handed him the jacket he was looking for. “The shoes are outside the door,” she said, her voice revealing very little.  


“I’m sorry, Phryne,” he muttered, “I thought I could be more… modern.”  


“You don’t have to apologise. No harm,” she responded with a shrug and a careless smile, turning her back to him, a picture of indifference. Jack couldn’t remember a time when he’d gone from so blissfully high to so achingly low. He reached for his shoes outside of the door still trying to adjust to the whiplash.  


“I do love you, you know,” she said from far away, only barely audibly. “No,” he said carefully. He stood still and swallowed. “Actually, no, I didn’t know that.”  


She huffed and turned toward him. “Well for heaven’s sake Jack, do I have to beat you over the head with it?” she said, actually sounding angry.  


“Well no,” he shot back, surprised at his volleying anger, “no, but it would be nice to _hear_. Phryne does it surprise you I can’t read minds? Not even yours?”  


She sighed and turned away from him again, he was nearly certain wiping tears. “I’m not _thrilled_ at the idea of being madly in love with you. I’ve never noticed that it ends well, for anybody.”  


He should have felt sobered by her extremely pessimistic view, or perhaps more reflective on his own love-disasters, but all he could hear ringing in his ears was “madly in love with you.” He dropped his shoes and jacket and came to stand with her next to the bed, touching her arm then pulling her into an embrace. She leaned into him.  


“Are you sufficiently frightened?” she warned him with a slightly wet sound in her throat.  


“We are stupid, hopeful beasts.”  


She smiled a little, wiping the last of the dampness from her eyes. "Speak for yourself,” she said, leaning up to kiss him.  


He growled and kissed her back, deeply. "Beast," she muttered, and he felt like one, pulling at her clothes, pawing at her body. He nipped at her neck as his hands found the warm weight of her breasts and his mouth caught up to her by-now frantic kisses.  


They fell onto the bed. He managed to open her robe and groaned at the next barrier, a beautiful but intricate nightgown. “I thought you’d want a slow start, a challenge” she grunted, trying to extricate herself from the really rather ridiculous amounts of slippery fabric and straps, while she simultaneously tried to rub against the tightness in his trousers. “We’ve had enough of those,” he muttered, helping her out of the lingerie a little roughly, and she laughed.


End file.
